


ugly gabi

by poalimal



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fic in the Time of Quarantine, Gen, M/M, Revenge Plot, Secret Identity, Soap Opera Elements, Ugly Betty - freeform, fashion - Freeform, misleading title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:08:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poalimal/pseuds/poalimal
Summary: 'Who the hell was that?' said Jack. 'I thought I fired everybody ugly.'
Relationships: Reaper | Gabriel Reyes & Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Reaper | Gabriel Reyes/Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison & Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 7





	ugly gabi

'There's a mole,' said Tank, striding into Jack's office without knocking. She looked full-on glamazon, towering tall in Jimmy Choos, with that sleek black suit on from... that one up-and-coming designer. Jack couldn't remember the name - he was sure he had it written down somewhere.

'There's a what?' said Jack. Tank tossed the _New York Daily_ onto his desk - it knocked a stack of old _JOIE_ magazines into his outbox. 

'Hey, watch it!' Jack said, re-shoving the magazines into a general pile. 'I haven't even had coffee yet - don't throw things at me.'

'Jack,' said Tank, 'would you please stop talking and listen to me?'

'Usually it's the secretary doing the listening,' Jack pointed out. Tank glowered. Jack cleared his throat. 'But please proceed.'

'Look, Jack,' said Tank, taking in a deep breath, 'I know you don't care about fashion, and I know you think your dad gave you this job just to watch you fail. But for better or for worse, you are the Editor-in-Chief of _JOIE_ now. And you've got a _mole_ somewhere in this office. How else do you think Gabriel Reyes is getting all these exclusives about our October issue? Leaky lips, Jack - leaky lips!' 

'Honestly, I don't think it's that serious,' said Jack, sighing and sitting back in his seat. Tank stared at him in clear disbelief. Behind her, he glanced out his glass door - he saw the squeaky mailcart stranded in front of Divina's office. If he listened closely, he could hear Divina talking to someone in Italian. Ugh. So pretentious. 

'Wow,' said Tank, 'could you be a bit more dismissive, please?'

'Look, I get your concern, Tank,' said Jack, 'and I definitely appreciate you coming to me about this. But I already saw this this morning,' he picked up the newspaper and tossed it right back down, 'and it's really not a big deal. I sincerely doubt that anyone's going to the _New York Daily_ for fashion tips. They're not our competition. Plus, you have to admit - those leather-taffeta coats were ugly.'

Tank took out her phone and began to scroll through it. 'Well - did you know there's a Twitter account about you getting dragged by the _New York Daily_?'

Jack sat up straight. 'Wait - what?' Wordlessly, Tank reached over his desk and handed him her phone: the Twitter account was **@jackmgettindragged** \- the full name was **JACK MORRISON GETTING DRAGGED BY THE NEW YORK DAILY**.

At random, Jack read a tweet aloud: ' _Jack Morrison stumbled into the event three hours late, wearing Target's Missoni fall line with an inspiring level of confidence_.' His jaw dropped. 'Wha-- what is this?'

'That one was more shade,' said Tank, 'to be fair.'

'I'm wearing Balenciaga in this photo!' Jack said. 'I don't shop for clothing at Target! I didn't even know they had a fall line!'

'Calm down, dude,' said Tank, pushing her locs back. 'You don't even shop for yourself.'

'That's not the point!' Jack said. 'This has over 20,000 retw--' He accidentally scrolled up to the top of the account again; it was then that he noticed the **FOLLOWING** floating next to the username. 'Wait, are you following them?!'

Tank cleared her throat. 'I think we're getting off-track here.'

Jack read the most recent tweet, presumably pulled from the _New York Daily_ article he hadn't really bothered to read: ' _The Pleury leather-taffeta coat is an unsurprising selection from the Jack Morrison-run JOIE. The coat is overconfident, uninspiring, and just plain ugly... The late and legendary 'Lady of Fashion' Julia Morrison would be ashamed to see what her magazine has become_.' The attached photo was of the hideous Pleury coat - side-by-side with an old photo of his mom, before the chemo.

The tweet had over 5,000 retweets already. 'Is that funny to you, Tank?' said Jack. 'Is that the kind of content you want to see?'

'No!, Jack,' said Tank, 'I only started following the account yesterday, but I've been seeing those tweets everywhere. I wouldn't have showed you if I thought it was funny. And I didn't see that most recent one, sorry.' She balanced on the edge of the desk. 'I just don't want you to downplay the impact of stuff like this.'

'And you said that guy Gabriel Reyes runs this account?' said Jack, putting down her cell and picking up his phone. 

'No-- well, not necessarily,' said Tank, slowly. 'Who are you calling?'

'Who do you think I'm calling?' Jack snapped. 'I'm calling my attorney. This guy is-- lying to make me look bad. That's slander!'

'It's libel, actually,' said Tank, leaning over and grabbing her phone. Jack glared up at her. 'Are you really that surprised that Reyes would write this kind of stuff about you? I mean, your hands aren't exactly clean here.' She stared at him closely, narrowing her eyes. 'Do you really not remember?'

'Remember what?' said Jack, irritably, hanging up on some day care centre. He hadn't called Bergins in forever, and now he'd forgotten her number.

'Back in college? You don't remember when you--' Tank said.

 _Knock-knock_ : someone at the door interrupted her. 

Jack heard an irritating squeak - and then the single plainest man Jack had ever laid his eyes on stuck his head through a crack in the door.

'Excushe me, Ms Negrón?' said the very plain man, pushing up his very thick glasses. His teeth gleamed - did he have _braces_? 'Wouldh you mind shigning for this?' He glanced at Jack before immediately looking away. 'Ah, Mr Morrishon couldh shign, too, I guesh.'

'It's totally fine, Romeo, I'll sign,' said Tank, walking over to the man and opening the door fully. His name was _Romeo_? Wow - God really was cruel. And forget about his features, what about his clothes? Now, Jack wasn't an expert on fashion by any means, but he got the feeling that Target would be an improvement for this guy. His shirt was dull, grey, wrinkled, and buttoned all the way up to his throat. His slacks were clearly untailored - they added about 10 pounds, and made his ass seem-- 

Jack tilted his head slightly. Ok, his ass was fine. But the clothes, the face, the glasses - all shit! If anyone deserved a Twitter account dragging their sense of fashion, it wasn't Jack, it was this guy!

As if he could hear Jack's thoughts, Romeo hunched his shoulders.

'Thankh you, Ms Negrón,' said Romeo, when Tank finished signing. He glanced at Jack again quickly, then scurried off with the squeaking mailcart, shutting the door behind him.

'Who the hell was that?' said Jack. 'I thought I fired everybody ugly.'

'Yea, well, I went out and hired some uglies,' said Tank, sounding annoyed as she crossed the room again, package in hand, 'because we need people who know what they're doing in at least our Mailroom. And because people aren't decorative, Jack!'

'You know I only hired you for your looks, right?' Jack said seriously. 

'Oh, shut up, Jack - your hairline's receding,' said Tank, dropping the package in his Inbox. Jack scowled, and tried flattening his hair down over his forehead. Tank laughed aloud. 'Just kidding! (Kind of.) Anyway, we'll talk about this mole business later, I think your 10 o'clock's arriving soon. So tighten your tie, keep a pen on you, and remember--' she gave an ad-worthy smile as she walked backwards, towards his door '--don't forget to smile.'

'Yea,' said Jack, distracted, turning the package over in his hands, 'sure.' Unmarked. Weird. Was this the watch from Yamamoto's camp?

He sliced open the side of the package with the boxcutter he kept on his keychain. An old-fashioned floral photo album slid out neatly and into his hands. Jack put the box to the side, and started flipping through the crinkling pages of the album.

It was empty. There wasn't a single--

on the very last page, there was a torn photo of his father, washed out from sun exposure and time. Jack's father had all his hair still, he was smiling - and he was holding a woman whose face had been burned out. The hair was brown, the skin was freckled-tan: it was not Jack's mother.

Carefully, quickly, Jack slid the photo out from the album sleeve - he looked through the ragged hole of the woman's face; he flipped the photo around.

 _ASK YOUR FATHER WHAT ELSE HAPPENED ON 4/4/1984_ , said the back, in dark red lettering.

April 4, 1984? That was when he had been born.

Jack dropped the photo and stood up quickly, his heart racing. It looked like he had more important things than moles to worry about. 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place during a non-existent, hybrid era of hyper-important magazine editors; non-digital magazine releases; and extremely viral Twitter content (with a less limited character count). As the title suggests, this fic includes elements of the general premise of _Ugly Betty_. More specifically, it's heavily based upon the _Ugly Betty_ episode 'Derailed', in which recovering playboy Daniel Meade, editor-in-chief of Mode magazine, requires a favour from Grace Chin, a lawyer he once led on and looked down upon years and years ago.
> 
> As far as tropes are concerned, this is actually kind of a reversal of the 'Ugly' Girl with a Heart of Gold trope. Gabe's more of a Count of Monte Cristo-type in this: A Beautiful Man with a Very Bitter Spirit.


End file.
